Lost and Found
There were not too many people inside the church because it was a weekday. A couple of old ladies were standing before the statue of Mother Mary chatting with each other. Why there, of all places?
She went to the side where other wooden statues of saints stood, uncertain of what she was looking for. It was an arduous exercise to pause from one sculpture to another. She had to find the right one, or her visit would have been in vain.
“If there’s a patron saint for unattractive people, maybe I should pray to him.” She thought to herself.
Though she knew what her heart was pining for, she wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing. A lot of people have told her that prayers to this saint really work. It won’t hurt to try.
Finally she saw him at the very end of the wall which was almost near the altar. The statue was frocked in a brown habit with a white cord around its waist. St. Anthony it was, the patron saint of lost things.
With trembling fingers and a heart full of hope, she took out a pen and piece of paper from her bag and started scribbling. She folded the paper in half and slid it in a small space underneath the base of the statue.
The same group of old women she saw earlier walked behind her and she closed her eyes.
As she stepped out of the church door, she wondered if her prayer would ever be answered, if her idea of a missing thing was the same as the rest.
All of a sudden, a car pulled up beside her and the driver’s side window rolled down. A nice looking man, in his thirties maybe, smiled at her. It was just him in the car.
“Hi, I hope you could help me. I seem to be lost.”